


Ammunition

by punkghost



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Abuse, Assassin - Freeform, Childhood Trauma, Crossdressing, Death, Gore, M/M, Murder, Pedophilia, Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 09:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19248790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkghost/pseuds/punkghost
Summary: Gerard Way is an assassin, the most notorious of them all.Cold. Intelligent. Merciless.Frank Iero is his latest target.Or perhaps, will he be Gerard's salvation?~~~+~~~





	1. Author's Note & Soundtrack

Okay.

Hi people I know irl, you're only permitted to read the first chapter. Sorry, no exceptions. 

So feel free to skip this page.

This whole book is a trigger warning, to be honest, but I'll list them here.  
\- Death/Murder (this is a common one throughout the book)  
\- Gore  
\- Pedophilia  
\- Rape  
\- Sex  
\- Abuse  
\- Dark themes/existential topics  
\- That's all I can think of at the moment

Frank and Gerard's relationship in this is not intended to be like one of those kinky Stockholm syndrome serial killer/victim ones you see in quite a few fanfics. "uwU I'm nOt LikE oTheR fAnfiCs!!!1!" I guess I'm trying to say their relationship is not built up on the fact that Gerard is keeping Frank hostage and that's romantic- I'm saying too much.

An update will be coming very soon! I wrote the first chapter a while ago, so I'll edit/uncringify that.

SOUNDTRACK

This'll be updated frequently as I find songs that kinda fit this story. Some may seem different than the others, but it'll make sense eventually.

So, here it goes.

The Sharpest Lives - My Chemical Romance

\- General vibe of the book - plus everyone reading this will know it

Gun. - My Chemical Romance

Fire - Sleeping With Sirens

\- Frank's theme

Monster - Skillet

A Car, A Torch, A Death - twenty øne piløts

Getaway Car - Taylor Swift

\- I'm such a fake emo, I know. My sister is a huge fan of Taylor Swift, and reputation is a great album tbh. It almost rivals BADLANDS in terms of badass female singers edgy albums. There - I said it.

Demolition Lovers - My Chemical Romance

All of The Black Parade B-Sides (My Way Home, Kill All Your Friends, Heaven Help Us) - My Chemical Romance

The Bird and the Worm - The Used

Raised By Wolves - U2

Crawling - Linkin Park

Bleed Magic - IDKHBTFM

Dasher - Gerard Way

That's all for now!

I'm so excited for this one.


	2. Prologue

Silence.

Even as the man, or if you could even call him that, moved through the house, the air remained still.

Even as the cool metal of a syringe slipped down his jacket sleeve into his gloved hand as he approached the open door, every movement of his feet controlled and thought out.

Even as he towered over the bed, the sleeping teenager showed no sign of stirring.

Even as he pressed the needle into the neck of the sleeping boy, injecting the venom into his veins.

And even when Gerard Way strode out of the residence, the only sound to be heard that night was the wind rustling the trees.

The screams of the heartbroken family would have to wait for the morning.


	3. Chapter One

Gerard strode into the alleyway, his steps confident yet cautious against the rough concrete, the metal soles of his shoes clicking ever so slightly. The misty grey sky of New Jersey had turned into a dark and unforgiving night. The moon offered no comfort as it was held captive by clouds that shielded the stars along with it. The rain pattering onto the concrete may have been relaxing for some people, but to Gerard, it was nothing but an inconvenience, each drop on the sidewalk drilling bluntly into his head. It was at such a time that even the shady part of town seemed dead. 

But now was not a time to ponder on that. 

He spotted his client almost immediately in the shadows. She was tall, but slouched on one side, with a haughty expression plastered across her face, like she was disgusted by the sight of him. Her blonde hair was drawn back in a messy ponytail, and her deep brown eyes were narrowed. She donned no makeup, which was a good decision, considering the weather of that night. The two had met previously, yet she almost looked like a different person this time. She looked older, more mature. That didn't matter to Gerard. 

"Did you bring it?" She asked, her voice quivery, more so than one would expect a woman who carried herself like that to be. Gerard quickly noticed that she had one hand insider her hand bag. Most likely preparing to dial 911 or to get out the goddamn pepper spray. Gerard completely understood why some people carry it - in fact he believed that it was rather smart to - but too many times a client has tried to spray him. None succeeded. 

Gerard brought his hand up to stabilise his mask. A hand painted skull, in which the white paint was like a beacon against his black-clad clothing. The oil paint curled across the smooth fabric, and featured a sewn on zip across the mouth, which was left open so that Gerard could talk easily. His hair was tucked inside of it, leaving no strand astray. Gerard took a slight form of pride in these artistic creations of his, although he wouldn't admit it.

Beneath it, however, he considered himself not as intricate. Thin, chapped, lips forever stuck in a hard line, slightly swollen on one side due to something rather unfortunate that happened a while back, Gerard couldn't remember whether it was last night or last week. His nose tilted up slightly, and of course, his cold, unforgiving eyes. The closest thing that could be described to his eye colour to was hazel. Quite honestly, Gerard himself had no idea, nor did he care enough to truely think of a description for them. Ink black hair framed his face, cut short and bland. All topped off with an elongated scar that reached from his eyelid to my lips. He did not stick out in a crowd, even with the ever-loving scar, which was fairly unnoticeable to your average bypasser.

Gerard nonchalantly flung off his backpack, which emitted a rather unflattering smell, that is, if you are not as used to it as he was. He took out the drawstring bag that lay inside - now that's what really smelt - and pulled it open without a moments hesitation. He then braced himself, before he hefted the content out of the bag. The client whimpered, hand over her mouth.

For here, was the head of her ex-boyfriend, James Wilson.

Due to being in Gerard's backpack for a prolonged amount of time, as airtight as it was, the excess blood that Gerard did not clean up had gotten into its hair, clotting it together in patches, or sticking the strands to its forehead. The eyes were open and glazed, the colour fading from them even though it had only been dead for a couple hours. Its jaw hung open, no longer supported by working muscles. Gerard admired his work with the neck. The cut was almost level on both sides, and although the flesh and skin was rough and frayed in places, it was beautiful. Perhaps the combination of a regular serrated knife and my new breaking knife was better than the old cleaver for this types if work. You see, Gerard would not call himself a perfectionist, but he could admire good craftsmanship every so often.

"Oh..." She trailed off, at a loss for words. 

Gerard's face remained stone cold and rigid. 

"It's a bit... more pungent than I thought it would be." She said, but her eyes expressed something different. She was stalling. Gerard could tell, from the distant yet anxious expression, like she didn't want to embrace the truth. 

Gerard made no move to stop her. 

After two or so minutes, she still couldn't take her eyes away from the head, it seemed she had forgotten all about the smell thats it emitted. She breathed in slowly, and took a tentative step forward, shifting the wet fabric of her clothes, making a rather unsatisfactory sound. Her arm stretched forward, and she pressed down the eyelids of the late James Wilson, her fingers lingering for a few seconds. She then looked up at Gerard, who didn't falter, and retreated far too quickly.

Not making eye contact with him, she whispered, "keep it," then pressed the one and a half thousand that she owed into Gerard's hand, before standing there awkwardly. Gerard stuffed the head into my bag, and turned around.

His work here was done.

~~~

Gerard stepped inside his house, slipping his jacket off his shoulders in one fluid motion. He hung it up, before flipping the light switch on. The TV was left on, and some generic game show was playing, where some forty year old was playing for five grand, who cares? The kitchen and living room were now illuminated, but he ignored that for now, and made his way to the door to the basement area. He trudged down the dreary stone steps, spiralling down until he reached the hallway, dust and creatures that had been trapped here ever since he bought this house filled the air. The heel on his leather boots echoed on the cold quartzite floor. Gerard turned into his art room, which had been abandoned months ago, and dust and grime had found it's way onto the old canvases and paint tins. The walls were a faded off white, with various splotches of accidental colour adorning them, giving the dead room one last shred of light. 

Gerard approached the Juan Gris painting on the wall, which he scowled at, it was never really was his taste, but he gave it to him. Gerard had to keep it. Gerard's fingers traced the frame nostalgically, taking off gold flecks of paint, worn down over the years. He brushed it off then unhinged it from the wall, and lent it carefully against the wall, revealing a numbered lock. He quickly punched in the password, before putting the painting back up, and left the room. 

The stone wall at the end of the hallway had creaked open, revealing another staircase. Wasting no time, Gerard hurried down the steps, reaching the bottom in good time. At the end of the staircase there was nothing, let alone a steel door. Gerard could feel the sticky heat of the room emitting from it, a sure change from the coolness of the basement. That room behind the steel door was where he'd be for the next few hours. 

Gerard took a deep breath in, then entered. The smell rushed at him all at once, and he forced down a gag. Sure, he may have grew up around this stench, but this room, it was revolting. Even though he visited it regularly, the smell was overwhelming. Rotten meat, eggs, and dog shit. Nothing. Nothing compared to this. He stuffed in his nose plugs, and let out a tiny sigh of relief as he did so. Gerard flipped a switch on the wall, turning off the heater. The room temperature decreased at a swift pace. With that, he then placed the head on the closest pile to himself, and pulled up his white gloves, which were starting to loosen. Then, he headed over to the back of the room, to the oldest pile. The content of it should be about two months old now, on average. Which, from being in this temperature for an extensive time, means it should be time to gather it up and send the contents away. Gerard got out a bucket of soapy water, a sponge and a large rubbish bin. 

He sunk to his knees and started picking out the paraphernalia that were fully decomposed, or close to it. Gerard could feel the roughness through my gloves as he dunked them into the water, and scrubbed the chunks of excess off of it. To think, he used to hate this, now it felt like nothing but a simple chore. He dunked them in the water, and scrubbed the excess off of them, before leaning over to chuck it into the bin. For the five percent of items that were not fully rotted, they just stayed in the pile. 

Gerard worked proficiently for an hour or so, finishing in that time. But that just meant it was time for a more laborious and time-consuming job. Shifting the piles to make room for new ones. 

Gerard still didn't necessarily enjoy this work - but then again, he tended to not endorse in activities for pure pleasure. According to himself, it can get in the way of important things. Not like he didn't really have any strong interests anyway. In the end, they just hold you back. Gerard used to endorse in painting, but it had grown tiresome and frustrating - nothing he created ever satisfied his need for quality. It was the same useless cycle of wasted effort for a result that just wasn't worth it in his eyes. It would leave him unfulfilled and drained, an uninspired mess, so he just stopped doing it. Gerard had no time for it, anyway.

So here he was.

~~~

Once he was done, Gerard left the basement to immediately have a shower. It was important, as the fumes of that room stick to you for weeks, and that would be unsanitary are inconvenient. Gerard kicked off his leather army boots, quickly stripped off his stained clothes and chucked them on the ground, before adjusting the shower to suitable temperature. He stepped in, not even flinching at the burning water hitting his skin. You see, he needed it on as hot as it could go, to burn off all the bacteria. If not dealt with quickly, he could contract diseases such as hepatitis B/C or tuberculosis. It was even more important for myself in particular to do this, as I have never been vaccinated for the latter. Gerard had gotten most of his vaccines, with several fake identities, but there were a few he had missed - and there's no point in wasting time to get the rest. In fact, he wasn't even entirely sure what he had been vaccinated for and what he hadn't. 

Gerard scrubbed until his skin until it was almost raw in places - a habit that he picked up when he was around twelve. He then carelessly rubbed some shampoo and conditioner into his hair, humming a tune to a song that he had heard long ago, a faceless bubblegum song you would hear on the radio, with happy lyrics about sex and partying - before turning the shower off and grabbing a towel. He got changed then walked downstairs, and was greeted by a stone-faced news anchor reporting on some political party. He turned it off before heading to the kitchen. The dirty dishes from last night were minimal, like always. Gerard ran the sink and squirted the remainder of a bottle of Palmolive into the water. 

He absentmindedly washed, listening to the news simultaneously.

"James Wilson, a teenager from New Jersey, has been reported dead last night from murder, found with his head decapitated and missing. Police have found that he had traces of a drug known as grey death in his blood, a deadly combination which can kill the user in less than five minutes, and can bought for the terrifying low price of ten dollars." 

"Police determine that in a severe state of depression, which James had been diagnosed with two months before his death, the teenager turned to drugs. He arrived home with one or two others, who had then taken advantage of his drug-induced state, and killed him, although whom remains a unknown."

Then, the news article ended, and within the next two minutes, the world forgot about James Wilson. 

Interesting, how quick people forget the life of another. Gerard supposed it's easier for strangers. You don't know them personally, why would you care? For ones close to the victim, it's harder for. Some do move on - some don't. But everyone is forgotten at some point. Tyrants, kings, heroes, will be forgotten over time. He himself was temporary. Life is temporary. Everything is. Gerard did not care whether he died tomorrow, or died in seventy years. Because, the sad thing was, Gerard had nothing to live for, and nothing to die for. He was another brick in the wall, another person for people to remember, another person for people to forget. 

Some people claim they have things to live for. 

Some people claim they have things to die for. 

It doesn't mean anything in the end. But then that leads to one main question. What's the point? What's the meaning of this? What's our purpose? I was told what my one purpose was. And that will be my purpose for the rest of my life. We all serve a purpose - even if it doesn't mean anything. Even if you don't like it. Even if it necessarily does more 'bad' than 'good'. 

And here was his. 

~~~


End file.
